


When I touch you I feel happy inside

by CelesteFitzgerald



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Hand-Holding, Platonic Relationships, Sick Character, brief mentions of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 15:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30074379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald
Summary: Life is so much better when you're holding your best mate's hand.
Relationships: George Harrison & Ringo Starr
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	When I touch you I feel happy inside

**Author's Note:**

> I started drafting this a month ago, then my motivation to write plummeted. But (hopefully) I'll get back in the zone soon! 
> 
> Hands are nice. Friends are nice. That is all.

The first time they did it, George had had a really long day. The turbulent flight, the reckless ride in the cab, the deafening screams the entire time they were on stage. As soon as he and Ringo returned to their hotel room, George flopped onto his bed and hugged the other pillow tight.

“Georgie? You alright?” Ringo said.

“Fed up with this bullshit,” George said, trying to laugh it off in a way that sounded convincing. Much less convincing were the tears that began rolling down his cheeks.

“Oh,” Ringo said softly as he hurried to George’s side.

George knew he meant well, but the feeling of Ringo looming over him and smothering him in a hug was just more pressure for him to crack under. “Ritchie,” he whimpered, lightly pushing him away. “I’m sorry, I…I wanna be alone.”

Ringo let go and rubbed his shoulder once more before getting up. He was heading back to his bed when a crushing loneliness washed over George, making the pain even more unbearable than before. “Ritchie?” he said, sounding much too desperate.

“Yes?” Ringo spun around immediately. But George didn’t know what to say. He just hoped Ringo knew how to make it better.

Slowly, Ringo sat back down on George’s bed—not touching him, just being there. It was better now that George could hear the subtle sound of his breathing, a reminder that he didn’t have to live this hell on his own. “What do you need?” Ringo whispered.

What _did_ he need? When Ringo was here, he yelled at him to go away. When he left, he yelled at him to come back. George slammed his eyes shut, forcing more tears out the corners. “I dunno.”

Ringo was silent. Of course. It was foolish of George to expect him—

Warmth enveloped his hand. George sucked in a tiny breath and opened his eyes. Ringo’s hand was wrapped around his, their palms pressed together. “How’s this?” Ringo said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

George’s thoughts were still swirling. But now he had an anchor to stop him from getting swept up in the hurricane of his own making. A soft, strong anchor with tiny little callouses that George felt each time Ringo slid his thumb back and forth, back and forth. George tugged Ringo’s hand closer to his chest—to his heart—and smiled. “Thank you.”

They stayed like that until the rhythmic brush of Ringo’s thumb soothed George to sleep. When George awoke a few hours later, Ringo was snoring next to him with his legs sprawled out in opposite directions. Their hands were still linked.

* * *

The second time they did it, they shouldn’t have. Ringo shuffled back to the sofa after throwing up for the fourth time that afternoon. “God, Ritchie, you look miserable.”

When Ringo grunted instead of making a witty comeback, George knew things were getting worse. He rushed off to pour him a glass of water. But Ringo pushed the glass away. “I’ll just sick it back up,” he said, tugging his blanket all the way up to his neck.

“You’ve gotta drink something,” George said, trying again. “Just little sips.”

Ringo shook his head.

“It’s really that bad?” George pressed his hand against Ringo’s forehead.

“Stop!” Ringo slapped his hand away, then immediately looked guilty. “Don’t wanna get you sick, too.”

“I’ll be fine,” George said. “And if I do get sick, I’ll get over it.”

“No. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.” Looking down, Ringo added, “ _I’m_ already sick all the time. That’s just how it goes for me.”

George’s heart ached at the thought of poor young Ringo stuck in the hospital with no clue when he’d make it out—or _if_ he would. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to go through that. At the very least, he shouldn’t have to go through it alone. Finding Ringo’s pinky finger sticking out of the edge of the blanket, George poked his hand in.

“ _Hey_ ,” Ringo said with a gasp.

“I won’t get sick, calm down.” George wrapped their fingers together, and _wow_. Maybe it was the blanket, or the illness, or both, but Ringo’s hand was burning. “I’ll wash my hands after. Promise.”

“…You don’t gotta stay here with me,” Ringo said, squeezing George’s hand tighter.

“Well, I’m sure not gonna make you do this alone.” George interlaced their fingers, hoping to soak up as much of Ringo’s fever as possible and take his pain away. “You’re gonna get better soon, okay? It’ll be over soon.”

Ringo shivered at the cold of George’s fingers, but he still didn’t pull away. “I hope you’re right.”

He was right. Ringo’s stomach had settled by the next day and he was gradually eating more. George chose not to tell him two days later when he spent the night throwing up in the bathroom.

* * *

George wasn’t sure when it switched from a rare occurrence to a routine, but he wasn’t complaining. Each time George was feeling down, Ringo was feeling hungover, or the pressures of being in the world’s most popular band grew, their hands inexplicably found each other.

With each consecutive time, the familiarity and comfort magnified. George grew accustomed to the feeling of each of his rings, able to notice new purchases by touch alone. He didn’t know why more best mates didn’t do this. Then one day, John and Paul answered that question for him.

George had forgotten the others were even in the room when Ringo grabbed his hand—then the conversation trailed off, and George was very aware of the pairs of eyes locked on them. He hoped Ringo couldn’t feel how sweaty he was getting.

“So, lads,” John said, smirking, “when’re you planning on breaking the news to your girlfriends?”

Ringo gripped him tighter. “What news?” he said dryly.

“That you’re cheatin’ on them.”

George and Ringo shared an irritated look. “We’re not,” George said. “It just feels nice.”

“Yeah,” Ringo agreed. “And Mo thinks it’s sweet.”

That was news to George. “You talk to Mo about that?”

“Talk to her ‘bout everything.”

John glanced at Paul, and Paul shrugged. The conversation started again, more hesitantly this time. Their hands remained locked together no matter how many odd looks continued to be directed at them. For good measure, George swung their hands back and forth. John and Paul would have to get used to this. George sure was glad he did.


End file.
